


portrait

by pallidrose



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Feelings Realization, M/M, Oneshot, Painting, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidrose/pseuds/pallidrose
Summary: And so Keefe does what he always does when he needs to calm down. To release any emotions, really.He paints.
Relationships: Keefe Sencen/Fitz Vacker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	portrait

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about painting, please feel free to educate me.
> 
> After posting this I realized that it kinda fits the song Ease My Mind by Ben Platt, so check that out if you wish!

Today is one of the bad days.

Keefe can tell from the minute his eyes flutter open. It's in the way his stomach knots, the way his shoulders slump of their own accord. It's in the heaviness that has settled over him, pressing him downward and trapping him under its weight, when his pounding heart and sweaty palms are warning him to stay on his toes.

And he hasn't even gotten out of bed.

He lies there a moment, steeling himself. Today is going to hurt- he's accepted that already. But he's not ready to face it quite yet.

But a hollow stomach and hammering heartbeat don't lend themselves to rest, and he soon gives up, sitting upward. He drags his hands through his hair, in some futile attempt to focus on something besides his quickening pulse.

One at a time, he places his feet on the floor. It’s cold, and he clings to the sensation. He can do this. He can do this.

But every fiber of him is clamoring to _run_ , to _escape_ , to get far, far away from here. Or else, it warns, something horrible will happen.

It's like missing a step on a staircase. Or tipping too far back in a chair. Except it's constant and powerful and impossible to ignore.

He's made it through this before, he reminds himself. Every bad day he's ever had is behind him, and he's made it out alright. 

What really weighs him down is knowing there will be more.

And so Keefe does what he always does when he needs to calm down. To release any emotions, really.

He paints.

It doesn’t take long to set up. His easel is already ready, still bearing a paint-splattered canvas left over from his last attempt at creating something noteworthy. Inspiration had failed to take hold, and he’d abandoned the project almost immediately. This time, he knows exactly what he wanted to create, and he has plenty of emotion to work with.

The first stroke is a soft greenish-blue, and he copies it over and over, covering the leftover splatters until the entire canvas is colored. That’s the background done. Nothing special, but it doesn’t have to be.

It doesn’t take long for the paint to dry- while the elves are not, on the whole, an artistic species, they _have_ perfected their paint formulas. And yet, as he waits, Keefe is still toeing the line of panic.

Once more, he takes a deep breath. It works- somewhat. He keeps his gaze on the green-blue rectangle, and that seems to do the trick. By the time the canvas is ready for another layer, he’s managed to tamp down the worst of it.

But that doesn’t mean he’s done here.

He needs to feel _good_ , not just _okay_ , and to get there, he has more work to do.

Another stroke, this time a rich brown color. It provides a warm contrast, and by the time he tops it off with a darker shade, the color scheme has become something comforting and familiar.

Keefe is barely aware of what he’s doing. His brush moves faster and faster, and his brow furrows in concentration. He’s only vaguely aware of what he’s trying to depict- only that some subconscious level of his mind has turned to it for solace.

Gradually, the frantic, furious movements of his hand slow as he attends to the details, adding dots of color here and there, highlighting the places where the light hits.

Finally, Keefe steps away, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

Before him, captured as perfectly on canvas as in Keefe’s photographic memory, is Fitz.

And all at once, Keefe’s heart begins to pound again. The paintbrush threatens to slip from his hand, slick with sweat.

He freezes, his eyes trained on the painting.

Fitz is his best friend. He knows that.

And yet, what he’s feeling right now? As he takes in Fitz’s face, his dimpled smile, his gentle eyes- the same soft teal of the background?

That’s not friendship.

It’s something else.

Maybe it’s always been there, lingering at the back of his mind. Maybe it’s only just sprung to life. 

Either way...

Keefe sinks to the floor, sliding down against the foot of the bed. His paintbrush finally drops, blotting the carpet with brown paint. Lord Cassius won’t be pleased, but right now, Keefe can’t bring himself to care.

To eliminate any trace of a doubt, he whispers the words to himself, pressing a finger to his wrist _just in case_ his pulse skips a three telltale beats.

Nothing happens, and his hands fall limply to the floor beside him. Fitz’s portrait smiles down at him.

 _I’m in love with Fitz._ He repeats the phrase again, in his head this time. There’s no question about it anymore.

He’s equally certain of only one other thing, and it bounces around his head, drowning out any other thoughts.

_He will never love me back._


End file.
